Sunday, May 18, 2014

Lions Dock

It's so HOT!  I've been weeding in the garden for so long, I feel like I was planted there myself.  Mom says we have to each weed a row of the garden before we can go swimming, which doesn't seem right since it's only Paul and John and Francis and me here in the garden.  I just KNOW that the other boys have already gone swimming, gotten away free without having to do any weeding.  It's not fair, but there's no use whining about it now.  We're stuck here among the beans and carrot tops, the peas and radishes.

I've got a row of carrots to weed, and its hard to tell the weeds from the carrots till I pull some out and see if there's a small orange bit of carrot or not.  If I do, with a quick scrub on my shorts to get the dirt off I have a nice little snack.  Paul has a row of beans, and since they're already good sized plants, he's just zooming through his row.  You'd think that would encourage me to go faster, to keep up with him, but somehow it doesn't - probably because of the way he is teasing me.

"Oh, the lake is going to feel so GOOD, so nice and COOL," Paul says loudly, eyes closed and smiling to himself for our benefit as he reaches the last few plants in his row.

John and Frances are sharing a row of radishes, which I have to admit are at least as hard to weed as my row of carrots.  But their little fingers are making short work of it, and they're just ahead of me.  I think I must be paying too much attention as I try to separate carrots from weeds.

Paul finishes first and makes a mad dash away from the garden, calling over to the house,"Mom!  I'm done! Going swimming!"

He snaps a towel from the clothesline, pins popping up like popcorn with no lid into the air after him.  He slings the towel around his neck like a scarf and hops on his bike.  He's doing loops in the yard though, so I suppose that Mom has called to him  to wait for the rest of us so that we can all go together.

Finally, John, Frances and I finish our rows.  Racing to the house, we pause briefly at the garden hose and take a long, cool drink.  Some days we'll play with the cool water for a while, turning it on and off while another is trying to take a drink, to see if we can make the water go up their nose, but not today.  The beach is waiting!

Although Paul is on his bike, the rest of us are walking.  We don't all have working bikes, it depends on what Peter, Pat or Phil have been able to fix up.  We're like a mini parade on the way to the beach:  John is wearing his towel like a swami's hat, Francis has his towel tied around his neck like a cape, and I've chosen to wear mine the same as Paul's - like a hot scarf.

We walk down the road towards town and the beach, following Paul. I can feel the heat of the pavement through my flip flops. We can smell the tar as the heat waves the scent up from the pavement.  The tar is hot enough in some patches that we leave a print.  Watching the melting tar on the road reminds us to walk carefully; usually at least one of us stubs a toe on this walk.  Once I even stubbed my toe right through my running shoe!

"When I get there, I'm going to run right in without stopping!" says Francis.

"I'm going to run right up the Lions Dock and jump in at the first ladder!" says John.

"Yeah," I say, "And I'm going to run up the dock too, and jump in at the second ladder!"

We've been to the Lions Dock so many times, we know how deep it is at each ladder and where it's over our heads.  We have all taken some swimming lessons, but I'm only at "advanced dog paddle" as my brother Pat would say.  I won't jump in from any ladder past the second one, because beyond there the water is way over my head.

We leave the heat of the road for a trail through the bush.  Paul has waited for us there, in the shade with his bike. The bush trail is a great shortcut that will take us the rest of the way - it comes out at the Trailer Park, right across from the beach.  The shade is so much more comfortable than the bright, hot sunshine and we slow down a little, to cool off.  On the path along the way we see big splats of blueberries that Paul tells us is bear poop! After first checking the nearby bushes for bears, we laugh and laugh, joking about the poor bear with his watery blue poop problem.

We finally arrive at the beach, hot, dry and even more dusty, a quick look both ways before we cross the road then throw our towels down on the sand, kick off flip flops and launch into the water.  Each of us enters the water as planned, with plenty of whooping and laughing along the way - the relief of the cool water evident in our increase of activity.

Lions Dock looks like a big, flat lollypop on the water, with a big diving tower at the end. The big boys like to stand at the end of Lions Dock and wrestle, pushing or pulling each other in, or running and sliding off the slippery boards right into the water, or daring each other to do a flip or dive or something from the top of the big tower. One time I even saw a kid ride his bike right from the beach to the end of the dock and into the lake!  I don't know if he ever got it out.

I once asked my mom why it was called Lions Dock and she said it was named after the group of men who built it, the Lions Club.  I don't really understand why a group of men is called a Lions Club, but it's a neat name for our dock.  I think there should be a sculpture of a Lion at the dock, a Fierce Lion, fierce like the boys that climb up the tower at the end of the dock and are the King of the Dock until they get pushed off by a new King.

I'll go to the end of the dock to watch if my older brothers are there, Pete and Pat usually in the crowd of boys.  Philip sometimes, too.  Paul goes too, but like me is always watching to be sure he has an escape route back down the dock.  We don't want to "accidentally" get pushed in!  I like to think that my brothers wouldn't let that happen, but I know that I'd better take care of myself.  We don't acknowledge each other - there at the end of the dock everyone is on their own.

Once the initial cooling-down period is complete, we settle in to beach activities.  Frank and John do some beachcombing.  I like to do that too, especially if they find anything good, like money.  Most of the time though, they are just chasing minnows, or searching for neat rocks. I do the same, but don't last as long before I have to dive into the water again, then back on to the towel to recharge with the heat from the sunshine.  Tom is here too; he's got his towel spread out and he's busy reading a book.  He is prepared for an afternoon.

Across the road from the beach, there's a little concession stand.  At the concession you can watch as the lady behind the counter makes cotton candy!  It's magical.  As we hang over the counter to watch, we can hear a snapping sound as the candy starts to build on the paper spool. We love the sweet smell of the sugar, the bright pink colour of the candy as she waves the paper spool around and around in the big spinning bowl, slowly building a sticky spider web globe of cotton candy.   That wonderful, sweet taste as the spidery threads melt in your mouth.  We don't get it often, but if we are lucky  enough to find some change on the beach or along the roadside that's how we'll spend it.

As the sun drops a little, my dad arrives there at the beach on Rabbit Lake.  We are all as brown as golden marshmallows from being in the sun all day - in the garden, laughing and playing in the water, and running up and down the Lions Dock.  We run over to see him and try to get him to come in for a swim, but he never does.  He watches as we show off for him, calling out for him to watch this, Dad! as we practice some of our better moves from dock into water.

"Your mother has supper ready," he finally tells us, "Go and let your brothers know it's time to come home."

Paul takes the job as it gives him a chance for one last jump in the water.  I take my dad's hand and we cross the road together, back over to the parking lot near the concession stand and to our big green station wagon.  In no time all of us walkers are in the car, windows rolled down in the hot still air of late afternoon, damp towels spread over sticky hot car seats.  Paul, Pat and Peter have picked up their bicycles and started a race back through the trail to see if they can get home before the rest of us in the car.

They do.

Saturday, March 29, 2014

Lost

Into the kitchen and there's Philip, making something to eat.

"What 'cha doin'?"

"Making a sandwich."

Well, I could tell that much, but he's got other stuff out on the counter like he's making a bag lunch and it's Saturday.  So there must be more to it than that.  It's frustrating when you know you aren't getting the whole story.

"Are you going somewhere?"

"Maybe."

Hmm, I won't get any satisfaction here.  I stand there in the kitchen a minute longer, just watching.  Mom and Dad have gone to town with the little ones, to do groceries and probably to get some stuff for the boys.  I didn't ask to go this time because it's so nice out and I feel like doing something Fun, but there's no one around.  My neighbourhood is full of mostly boys and older girls - which works out great if someone (usually the Wilkers) organize a baseball game or something in the field, but not so great (for me) if they don't.  No one for me to play with.

I go outside, letting the screen door slam behind me since mom and dad aren't home and stand, squinting, on the front step.  The sun is bright on this warm spring morning and I feel like doing Something.  I hop off the front step and walk over towards the swingset, taking big giant steps.  With each step, I imagine all the blades of grass squishing under my giant foot; any unlucky bug or ant seeing my shadow running off in another direction.  As I pick up my back foot and twist to look back over my shoulder, foot in the air, I can almost see the footprint I left in the grass... but it quickly disappears as the grass perks up again, drawn to the sunshine.  I stand on one foot for a minute longer, lift my arms out like wings and dip forward, my other foot extending back like an airplane.  I dip around a bit, eyes closed and feeling the sunshine and warm breeze along my body, then open my eyes and attempt a mid-air foot-switch.  I land it but don't have the interest in continuing the game on my own, instead bursting into a run across the grass, along the garden and past the lilacs, towards the chicken coop.

I stand at the chicken-wire fence, watching the chickens as they scratch in the dirt and chase each other around.  Hmph, even they have others to play with.  I rip a small branch off a pin cherry tree close by, and throw little bits of stick and leaves into the pen.  Each new thing I throw draws the chickens closer, and each time one of them picks up the leaf or stick I've thrown and runs madly away from the others, being chased as they fight for the little bit of green.  My little brothers and I like to watch this sometimes and call it "chicken football", but today on my own I lose interest quickly.  I stay standing at the fence though, with my fingers through the round wire holes and my running shoes up against the bottom of the fence.  The chickens get used to my standing there and come over to peck through the fence at my shoes and knotted laces.

Standing there quietly, I hear the kitchen door slam again, and, fingers still through the fence, I glance over to see what's happening at the house.  Philip is heading this way with Paul following close behind.  I wonder what they're up to and watch as they walk across the grass, along the garden and right past me, towards the swamp at the back of the yard.  Where could they be going?

My hands drop from the fence, fingers red now from holding on the wire too long.  I know they won't want me along, but maybe I can follow and see where they are going?  After all, I can't stand here and play with the chickens all day.

Leaving the fence, I run on tip-toes over to the chicken coop and peek around the corner.  Philip is carrying a small pack - a lunch pack I guess, with Paul following closely behind.  I can tell that they're not just out for a walk, they are walking with purpose, like they have a job to do, like they are going somewhere Important, or Interesting, or Fun.  As they walk down the small hill leading towards the swamp, I suddenly re-consider my stealth and call out.

"Paul!  Philip!  Where are you going?  Can I come, too?"

Philip doesn't even pause or turn, he just keeps walking, still heading towards the swamp, their lunch in a small pack over his shoulder.  Paul, however, turns and as he sees me, his face darkens into a scowl.  I can tell that he's been invited and won't let me spoil it, but I ache to go too.

"You can't come," he shouts back at me, adding, "Don't follow us!"

But how can I resist - I break into a run, through the tall grass of the field down towards the swamp.  Paul, seeing me, stops and, turned towards me, waits with his hands on his hips.

"Aww, can't I come along?  I promise to be quiet," I add, as I pull up to a tentative stop in front of him on the trail.

"No," he says, face still dark. "You'll wreck everything."

"I promise I won't!"

"No, you don't even know the secret knock.  Besides," he says, his body turning away from me, but his face still watching me, his face changing from a dark scowl into a nasty grin, "it's only for BOYS."

With that, he turns away and bolts down the trail, catching up with Philip and I watch as the two of them disappear into the darkness of the trail into the swamp.

It's not fair, I think to myself.  Why did I have to be Just a girl?  The boys have way more fun.  I decide to follow anyway, but think I'll wait a bit so they can't see me following them.

I approach the swamp with not a little trepidation.  My parents have warned all of us of the dangers of going into the swamp, not to mention Francis almost drowning that time he fell into the swamp behind the neighbours' house.  By trying to follow Philip and Paul, I know that I am breaking at least one rule.  But I just can't bear to be left behind again.  And besides, it's a beautiful, sunny day, what could possibly go wrong?

I start down the trail; at least I think this is where Paul and Philip went in.  The scraggly balsams grow close together and the further down the trail I go, the darker it becomes.  The moss along the path looks pretty and so soft; I notice some lady slippers growing all together.  I know I can't pick them but I do stop to have a look.  I marvel at them, and think about how they're not like a regular flower at all.  I caress the moss with my hand, it really is so soft, light green and spongy.  It would make a wonderfully soft chair or bed if it weren't so damp.  I stand again and walk farther along, following where the balsams and moss seems to be lightest.  My runners are starting to get wet; each step I take leaves a very soggy footprint behind.

I stop under a larger balsam and look down the trail... only it doesn't seem like there's any particular trail here.  I can see deer poop along some of the moss and wonder which is the people trail and which is the deer trail... it's like I am in a swampy maze.  Standing under the tree now, on the roots of the balsam, every direction seems wet.  The sunshine doesn't reach this far into the swamp, and I'm feeling a little cool in my t-shirt and shorts.  Where did they go?  How far could it be?  Like in my back yard when I was on the grass, footprints disappear in this damp landscape.  There's no hint to which direction they might be.  I don't even know how long I've been following them, or how far back into the swamp I've gone.  I take a tentative step out towards one trail, and immediately the water surrounds my shoe.  I pull my wet foot back quickly and my footprint fills with water, disappearing.  I try another direction and actually feel the moss give way as my foot drops below the roots of the balsam - I pull my wet foot back again, panicked.  I'm stuck here.  I think of Francis and how mom said that when she jumped in, everything was black - she couldn't see him, but she felt him.  I don't want to be taken by the swamp, with no one here to find me!

I lean back against the trunk of the balsam, not caring that the sap is sticking right through my shirt to me.  Maybe the balsam will help keep me from the murky swamp water.  How am I going to get out of here?  Any tentative step away from the balsam sinks my foot deeply into the moss.  I decide to try calling on my brothers.

"Paul!  Philip!  Paul!..... Philip!.....Paul!....PAUL!.... PAUL!!"

Shouting into the darkness of the swamp isn't like calling off the front step of the house.  Rather than having my words echo along on the breeze around the house and across the field, my words are cut short and absorbed into the swamp itself.  There's no chance of them being heard.  My brothers are long gone, I think to myself, my cheeks getting hot as tears begin.  They don't want me around, anyway.  Maybe there isn't even a fort, maybe they just brought me out here, knowing I'd try to follow, to lose me.

I imagine my family at the dinner table, not missing me.   I think of Mom calling the Boys for dinner (she never calls Girls).  Someone might wonder why its more quiet than usual and they'd just pass the potatoes and shrug, not noticing that I'm not there. I think of the room that I share with my sister, and how happy she'd be, not having a little sister poking into her stuff all the time.  Tears flowing freely, I sob as my knees give out and I slowly sink to a squat against the tree, smearing sap and tearing my t-shirt along the way but I don't care.  No one loves me, anyway.

I cry for awhile, feeling sorry for myself, sobbing alone there in the dark swamp, trapped with the balsam trees in the middle of the moss that stretches across and between the trees, covering a deep, dark, mucky lake.  A lake that eats children, one that almost had my little brother Frances.

Geez, why would anyone live here, anyway, I wonder, as I mop my face with my shirt, tired out by all my fuss.  I realize that I'm starting to feel hungry and wonder how long I've been stuck here.  I hadn't planned ahead, like Philip had, with a lunch.  I tentatively take a step and again I'm forced back to the tree by the threat of the water.  I decide there's only one thing left to try, and so I start again, this time shouting for HELP just as loudly as I can.  I am determined that I'm not going to be lost forever in this swamp.  I pace myself and just keep yelling HELP... count to 25... HELP... count again... HELP... hEEEllllppppp... hhhhEEEELLLLLppppp..... HHHEEEEllllpppp.... hheeellllPPPP....

Suddenly a man appears in the swamp and I stop shouting and stare at him as he approaches, a big man with a dirty white t-shirt, jeans, and big black rubber boots.

"Is that you making all that racket out here?" he asks me as he approaches, "You're scaring my kids!"

"I'm stuck here," I manage, as he comes closer, stepping along the moss, water up to the boot tops.

"I figured that," he says, and holds out his arms.

Tentatively, I grab on to him as he hoists me up along his side and turns to slog back through the swamp towards where he came from.  He's not familiar to me, but that's not surprising since most of the dads in the neighbourhood work, like mine, and mostly you only see kids and moms.

Embarrassed, I don't say a word as he carries me back through the swamp.  It's a surprisingly short walk before we get to where the swamp ends and a back yard starts.  Waiting and watching in the back yard are a woman and three small children, the Bannisters, about 4 doors down from my house.  Mr. Bannister puts me down and I can barely look up at him as I say, "Thank you".

It's all I can do to not bolt away up the hill, wishing I could just disappear as the little kids are looking at me with their big eyes and mouths open, like I had three heads.  Even Mrs. Bannister is still just standing there, looking at me.  Only Mr. Bannister has the decency to ignore me and has gone back to his gardening.

"Are you okay, dear?" Mrs. Bannister asks, finally breaking the silence.

"Yes, thanks," I say, with a short glance up at her.  I guess I don't look that great with my streaky tear-stained red face, and ripped and sticky t-shirt.  I am SO embarrassed about having to be rescued; I also can't imagine the trouble I will get into at home if my parents find out I was in the swamp and had to be rescued by one of the neighbours - I'll get the wooden spoon, for sure.

I dash the rest of the way up the hill, past their house, along their driveway and back to Tetroe Road.  I slow to a walk and mop my face again, trying to clean up the tears.  The hotness in my face is cooling down, I don't want to get home and have everyone asking questions.  I reach our yard and see that my dad's car is back in the yard again, that means they're all back from town.  I can see John, Francis and Scott in the front yard, playing in the sand, and I've never been so happy to see them.

Running up to them, I shout out, "Hey, want to play a game?"

"What game?" asks John, and Francis looks up too, interested.

"How about Store?  I can make pies and Francis can be the storekeeper and you can be the Dad who comes to buy the pies?"

"I want to make pies!" says Francis, engaged at once.

"Okay, you make pies and I can be the Storekeeper..."

"I want to be the Storekeeper!" says John, now buying in, too.

"Okay great, and Scott can be the Dad and I'll help him to pick out the pies!"

Scott smiles, diaper drooping, and says "Pies!"

And the game begins.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Mount Evergreen

Usually on a weekend in the winter you can find me at Mount Evergreen Ski Club, my home away from home.  I've been skiing here every winter since I was about 4 years old when I learned to ski on the little hill beside the parking lot.  Eventually I mastered that little hill, both down and up, and pushed my way across the flats to the t-bar and the Real Ski Hills.

I usually walk to the hill from my house.  It's pretty far; sometimes I am lucky and I get a ride.  There's a shortcut to the hill on a skidoo trail through the bush once I get to Skyline store; packed by snowmobiles its easy to walk on.  If I haven't gotten a ride by the time I get to the store, then I take the shortcut.  I have to carry all of my ski stuff when I go; my arms can get pretty tired.  It's better when I can use a boot tree to hold my boots together, although sometimes they pop right out of it.  I have a good system to put my skiis and poles together: the skiis through the pole straps, and then wrap the safety strap around tight and clip it.  That keeps everything together and I don't drop anything.

Often I'm one of the first ones at the hill.  Mr. and Mrs. Symonds live right at the hill  though so I am never there before them.  Mrs. Symonds runs the chalet, and Mr. Symonds loves to cross country ski around the property.  Not very many people cross country ski at the hill usually, but he always does.  He told me one time about Jackrabbit Johannsen, a man who is a hundred years old and STILL loves to ski!  I think Mr. Symonds will ski until he is a hundred, too.

Mrs. Symonds doesn't ski, but she loves to be in the chalet.  Mostly she sells the lift tickets.  She also works behind the lunch counter.  Her granddaughters sometimes work there too - Ivy and Frances.  They are really fun girls and sometimes they will give me swampwater for FREE!  The swampwater is really good - it's the pop that is left in the tray when they fill a cup and it overflows into the tray.  I always bring my lunch with me but sometimes I find a quarter or a dime on the floor to get a hot chocolate.

Finally arriving at the hill on this sunny cold Saturday, I bring my skiis down to the ski rack in front and head into the chalet.  After going upstairs to see who is around (no-one yet), and saying Hi to Mrs. Symonds at the ticket counter, I head back downstairs to get my stuff on.  My ski boots are black leather with laces inside and silver buckles outside.  I got them this year from the swap shop and they look really great, especially since I blackened them up with shoe polish to look like new.  Downstairs is the spot for changing your boots and I usually find a place on the bench where I can tuck my winter boots, my boot rack and my lunch.  I take my time to get the boots buckled up just right so my feet won't get cold right away - not too tight or too loose.  I do have a couple of pairs of socks on, but some days they get cold really quickly anyway.  I wait around but there aren't many people out here yet, although Mr. Myles and his crew already have the t-bar running.  If it gets busy enough, and if he has enough help, he'll start the rope tow too, usually around lunch time.  You use the rope tow to get up to the Big Hill, Skyline - the rope tow is so fast it just zips you up the hill!  It's not for little kids.  The sun is warm coming in the window as I put on my boots, although I know from my walk this morning that skiing will be quite frosty.

Boots buckled and lunch stowed, I head out to the ski rack.  I love the way the ski boots make me walk heel-toe, heel-toe, stomp stomp stomp.  I push the door open and squint at the sunlight sparkling off the snow.  There's a light dusting of new snow this morning, and the sparkling is beautiful.  In the quiet, still air, I can hear the t-bar tinkling as a bar goes around the big wheel at the bottom of the hill and heads back up again. Boots squeeking in the snow, I walk over to get my skiis off the rack and use my poles to scrape the snow from the bottom of my boot before stepping into the bindings.  With the binding cable around the back of my skiboot, I push the front of the binding down and it snaps into place.  Then I carefully wrap the safety strap around my snowpants and clip it.  It's hot work, all this fiddling around, bent over and bundled up, but eventually I've got them on.  It is easier putting them on, when you're still warm, then taking them off when you are freezing cold!  Straightening up, I squint out over to the t-bar.  There aren't too many people around yet, but that's because I've come so early.  It's the best time to make some nice tracks on the hill, before everyone else arrives.  I love skiing in the morning.

I head away from the chalet, a big pole push to get started and ski-skate across the flats just like I've seen the big kids do it.  It took me awhile to learn how, but now I can get going pretty fast and I'm at the t-bar corral in no time.  No line ups, so I go right up.  Mr. Miles is there today and he smiles at me and we say good morning.  I slide into place and Mr. Miles passes the t-bar for me, just right, and away I go up the hill.  He never passes the t-bar wrong; I've seen him teach all kinds of people how to get on.  He makes it look so easy, even when someone really tall and a really little kid get on together.

On my way up the hill, I stare at my skiis in the tracks, watching as they slip up and down.  Matt is working today, shoveling out the dips in the track so it stays flat and people won't fall off.  He moves his shovel at the last minute and we say Hi as I go past.  He's a good skier.  The t-bar makes a jangling noise as it  goes past one of the posts holding the cable; I love that sound - it makes me smile and hum a little song.  As I get close to post number five, I make sure my skiis are in the track properly and both hands are holding on - one holding the bar and the other the edge of the crossbar.  Sure enough, as I pass by this bar near the top of the hill, I get lifted out of the track - just a little - wheee!  It's fun when I'm on by myself.  Sometimes I'll even give a little hop so that it lifts me a bit higher!  And already now I'm at the top.  Jim is up here today with his dog, a red Irish Setter named Red.  His dog wears a bandana; I haven't seen dogs with bandanas before Red, except in pictures.  I hear the whoosh as I take the bar from behind me and make sure it doesn't swing, even a little bit, so that Jim doesn't have to do a thing.  I smile and say hi, and turn right, over to Otter Slide.

I pause at the top of the hill to pick my line, decide which way I'll go.  I love the way there are dips all over the hill, it's not just wide and flat.  There are trees to ski around, not too many but just enough.  There are bumps too, that if you know how to hit just right you will catch some air.  Someone has been out before me, I can see their tracks - the hill has been groomed recently and it's just like corduroy.  Perfect.  Even here the sun is making the snow all sparkly and I know my eyes will water once I get started, but that's okay.  I pull my hat down a little lower and my scarf up a little higher and then I push off.  It's just like flying.  I'm free, I'm soaring all over the hill, I'm making my own tracks, I'm going fast and my nose is cold and I don't care.